Excited Utterances: Those Three Little Words
by TheQueenieM
Summary: A Drarry ficlet triptych. Three words, three ways. Technically, three different three word sentences in a three-part ficlet. And the third three word sentence is actually doubled, so let's see.. nine plus.. Forget the math and bring on the naked wizards!
1. Chapter 1

**A note on the title: "Excited utterances" are a juridical concept - under U.S. Federal law, an excited utterance is a hearsay exception at trial evidence, because the assumption is that the emotional spontaneity of such an utterance means that it must be true.**

**This drabblish amble plays on the fact that Draco refers to Harry exclusively as "Potter" (always with a soupçon of audible derision, of course) and has never addressed him by his first name. Our yummy lads do some paradigm-altering blurting one rainy night in Hogwarts.**

**Mature sexual content of the male/male sort. I don't own the characters, etc.**

**Slash ahoy!**

* * *

He hadn't meant to, it had just slipped out.

The breathless staccato litany emerged from Draco's mouth in little more than a whisper, but they were both pulled up short by its final word.

"Oh- god- _Harry_"

From his position on his knees in front of the lithe and writhing Slytherin, Harry suddenly stopped his clumsy but earnest ministrations, his open mouth now hanging empty before Draco's spit-slick cock, a change of venue that yanked something more like a choked howl than a proper interrogative out of the shocked blonde.

"Mugglefuckingno, whyareyoustopping"

Even as he said it, he suddenly realized what had escaped his lips more quietly a moment before, all too clearly recalled the warmth that filled his chest as those two gentle syllables had welled up and moved across his tongue like a prayer. "_Like a prayer_"? Oh bollocks. _Pull yourself together, Malfoy_. Scolding himself as a sentimental git, he shifted his body reflexively into the only semblance of dignified he could manage with his flawlessly tailored pants pooled around his ankles. Emotional defenses right back up faster than a fortress spell. His father would be proud. Anyway, it wasn't as if whispering the insufferable do-gooder's first name in the heat of passion meant anything. It wasn't as if he- loved him.

Oh. Damn.

Best not to think about that just now. Instead, he pushed his hips toward Harry's hovering face in silent command, but the boy who lived rocked back just enough to refuse, and locked his eyes on Draco's with an intimacy that made him feel- what? Vulnerable? Christ, Malfoys don't _do_ vulnerable. What Malfoys do is glance away and gaze at the wall opposite as though they didn't care a whit whether the inexpert but thoroughly mind-destroying blowjob continued or not. Setting his face in what he hoped was an expression of smug boredom - although it felt more like ridiculously ill-disguised anguish of several kinds - Draco drew back to rest against the cool stones of the wall behind him and pretend he hadn't just reverently sighed the hero of Hogwarts's name like it was the very breath he needed to live.

Undeterred, Harry licked his still-wet lips nervously and surprised himself by making a demand, delivered much more authoritatively than he felt.

"Say it again."

Feigning ignorance as best he could, the pureblood casually replied "Say _what_ again, Potter?"

Made bolder now by anger, Harry shot back "You bloody well know what. Say it. Say my name again."

Still staring unwaveringly at the blank wall as if it was the most interesting tableau he'd ever seen, Draco struggled, conflicting emotions as visible under his skin as veins, throbbing wildly. Finally, he hesitantly lowered his head to meet Harry's insistent gaze. His eyes ablaze with a dazzling battle of hope and fear, of inviting and aloof, of surprisingly unguarded and characteristically closed off, he curled his lip in the hint of an arrogant sneer he knew full well was just protection and growled his response.

"_Make me_."


	2. Chapter 2

He hadn't meant to, it had just slipped out.

The quiet but firm demand had emerged from Harry's mouth with considerably less authority than he felt in his fluttery torso, but they were both pulled up short by its unexpected boldness.

_Say it again_.

From his position on his knees in front of the lithe and writhing Slytherin, Harry watched as his words penetrated, surprised to see how quickly those three little words had disheveled the cool facade of Malfoy royalty. But hadn't he himself just been shaken to his very core by three soft words falling off Draco's lips? Sweet Merlin's wand, how brilliant his name had sounded whispering tenderly off that usually venomous tongue.

He could smell Draco's frustrated ache, could still taste his swollen cock in his mouth. It made him dizzy, drunk as if on something far better than butterbeer, and the long seconds of silence following his world-changing blurt spun him dangerously close to out of control. If Draco would just look at him, would just stop staring smugly at the bloody wall. The heat radiating off all that sleek naked skin washed over Harry like a drug, and he struggled to resist the urge to just fall forward, give in to the screaming desire to clutch and swallow and sink his fingernails hard into those pale hipbones and swim in the salty thrust and breathtaking moans that shot right to his own desperate prick, still trapped uncomfortably under pants and robes and damn Malfoy to every possible hell, why won't he just _say it_ so we can-

The sudden sound of the usual "Potter" spit like a smooth curse brought his train of thought to a sharp halt, and feeling a fist of rage rise in his stomach, Harry shook off Draco's pretense of nonchalance and repeated his demand. Clearly this time. Bitterly this time.

_You bloody well know what. Say it. Say my name again._

This was it, the line drawn in the sand, and he had to stand his ground, even if he was on his knees at the moment. Refusing to drop his gaze from Draco's averted face, he watched with a discomfiting transition from anger to tenderness as the lean column of throat above him bobbed with what he suddenly realized could not have been anything other than the forceful swallowing of repressed tears, watched as pouty mouth and heartbeat visible under breastbone twitched with a miniature war Harry could well imagine. Before now, he'd never really stopped to think what it would be like for someone so well trained in cruelty to have to deal with feeling genuine- affection? Or maybe he was completely misinterpreting all of this - maybe Draco really _didn't_ care about him, maybe he actually _was_ just a ruthless bastard, maybe this was just a convenient fuck in a deserted hallway. And maybe this was all a little too dangerous anyway, the emotional stakes too high, and perhaps, Harry thought glumly, he ought to just shove all these feelings back down into the pit of his stomach where they'd been slowly building up all these years and they could just go back to perfecting their mortal enemies routine, because hey, they were getting really good at that, weren't they?

Just as he was about to give in, give up, haul himself up onto lust-wobbly legs he desperately hoped would support him and walk away from this moment, walk away from them, from whatever this was or could be, Draco slowly turned his head and looked down, locking his eyes onto Harry's with the trademark Malfoy family icy gaze meant to render the unlucky recipient a quivering mass of insecurities. It didn't fail: Harry felt his cheeks bloom red, and he swayed with anxiety and embarrassment and desire all at once, and into that confusion, the surly blonde tossed his terse two syllable dare.

_Make me_.

It should have made him angry. It should, in fact, have made him furious. But Harry suddenly didn't feel angry at all. In fact, what he felt was something he could only imagine calling "joy" in the jumbled mess of his thoughts. He _would_ make Malfoy say it again. _He_ - awkward, drink dribbling naif - had the power to make the impeccable Slytherin prince involuntarily moan his name, and he would. He would coax it out of him slowly and softly; he would tear it out of him wetly and roughly. And not just here, now. Over and over. In the Room of Hidden Things. In the towers. In the dewy grass of the Quidditch pitch. And in Harry's own bed where he had twisted the sheets mercilessly in his fists so many nights as he'd dreamt of Draco. As he imagined their future together, his galloping pulse hammered his veins and he drew a hitched breath, tried hard to focus. In his brief distracted reverie he suddenly noticed with alarm something shifting in the pale, slim face above him, something closing and shutting him off, away, and no, he couldn't let that happen, couldn't let Draco slip away, put up all those barriers again. Flinging himself desperately back onto naked flesh, Harry swallowed him in one go, Draco's cock bumping solidly in the back of his throat.

lllll

White. White was all he could see, but it couldn't be light, because he was underwater, deep underwater. One second he'd been about to give in, give up, snatch up his clothes and walk away from Potter and the deafeningly long silence ticking away in the wake of his gambit and then the next-

It had happened so suddenly, the shock of it driving him back against the dungeon wall in a violent shudder that raised goosebumps along his sweat beaded thighs. And now there was this- this wordless ocean of wet mouth and fierce fingertips and little sounds purring in Harry's throat that sounded like he was trying to sing, that sounded like having Draco's cock stretching his rapidly swelling lips was more ecstasy than he'd ever dreamed. Hands that were everywhere, all at once, sweet then rough, soothing, torturing, every inch of bare skin they could reach, and fuck, how did Potter know to touch _there_? He couldn't open his eyes, he really shouldn't. He'd be blinded. If the white was this bright with his eyelids squeezed shut so hard it hurt, what would it be like with them open? How could he possibly bear to _see_ too, when just _feeling_ was, he was quite certain, about to kill him outright? Ignoring the half-formed grim joke about death eaters that flashed through his mind, he peered nervously through a shield of fluttering lashes, looked down and- Well, there really weren't any words for it, were there? Love and lust and yes and he can't be this beautiful welled up together in his throat. Afraid of what he might do if he lost his currently very slippery grip on the last tattered threads of his self-control, he lifted his hand gingerly toward Harry's head, and, resisting the urge to grab and pull undoubtedly too hard, instead ghosted his fingers as softly as he could over the thick dark hair.

He might have survived, if those eyes hadn't flown open at his touch and locked onto his.

It broke him open. Broke him open like a sword and he swayed, kept upright only by the firm hands which steadied him at the hips, and all he could think was that it was breaking him open but curiously it didn't hurt. In fact, it felt like water and rain and long forgotten lullabies and he needed to look away but he couldn't and Harry just wouldn't stop giving - with his mouth and his hands and his eyes all at the same time and when, exactly, had he fallen in love with his halfblood enemy, and how, exactly, could he remember to breathe and _please_ and _yes_ and _I oh_ and as the imminent orgasm began to sweep through his bones like fire, he felt sobs rising but damn it no, he wouldn't show weakness, he had learned those hard lessons, early and brutally: "_Malfoys don't cry_", and so he reached for the only other thing he could think of, a verbal lifeline, and he shouted it or whispered it or maybe both, he didn't know anymore and "It rang out like a bell" was his last blurry thought before collapsing down and forward into blackness and Harry's arms.


	3. Chapter 3

They hadn't meant to, it had just slipped out.

Coming back to light folded in a tangle of damp limbs and crumpled robes and Harry's flushed face hovering worriedly over his, Draco made for his mouth like a drowning man speeding toward air.

Craving and panting and starving for more of anything, of everything, so long as it was Draco's, Harry had only a split second to realize that this was _going to be_ their very first kiss before it actually _was_.

And now, the awestruck gasp that rose in each of them as their lips met were trapped softly in the wet prison of their locked mouths; Draco's prompted by the taste of his own semen on Harry's lips, Harry's by- what? He didn't even know. The impossible perfection of feeling Draco's tongue for the first time? The heady knowledge that he had made him come, made him scream, made him call his given name so loudly that the echo was only now dying down in the winding hallway? The frightening-wonderful thought that it would happen again and again?

Somehow, the muffled gasps had transformed themselves into words as the boys reluctantly pulled apart for a breath, because there it was, coming out of each of them at the exact same moment.

Those three little words that changed everything.

They would say it to each other countless times in the coming years - sometimes playfully, sometimes huskily, sometimes sweetly, always truthfully. But here, now, on the cool floor of the corridor, wrapped in soft light and the sharp scent of their bodies, they had blurted it out in unison. Not knowing whether to laugh or cry at the coincidence, nor at the disconcerting implications of those spontaneous words, they opted for the nearest alternative. Seizing Harry's tie, Draco shoved him backward to supine, his deft fingers quickly revealing a growing expanse of bare skin as buttons yielded and Gryffindor finery fell away piece by piece. His wolf-like grazing tilted Harry's world off its axis, and when that ruthless mouth crossed the hard line of muscle rippling just above his navel, he thought he saw a glint of mischief in the lust-darkened grey eyes a moment before Draco taunted him with the last coherent sentence either of them would manage that night.

"Time for you to say _my_ name."


End file.
